Paralyzed
by JellyBean30
Summary: 2nd in a series. Cameron's POV about five events/time periods during S3 & S4. Leading to a House/Cameron relationship, eventually. Kind of dark & angsty
1. Change

**A/N:** Part two in a series. Cameron's POV on five events/time periods beginning in Season 3 through Season 4, so spoilers for all.

**Paralyzed**

_Can you see him in his lounger  
Watching TV in the dark  
Waiting for the spark  
Till the sun turns black  
__Till the Sun Turns Black by Ray LaMontagne_

**Chapter 1 – Change**

"_All change is bad? It's not true you know."_

_You stand in his doorway, envying the casual grace with which he leans against the frame. He turns to look at you, a self-satisfied smirk playing on his face, and you wonder what he is thinking. Probably that you are still every bit the naïve little girl he hired three years ago. You wish you could tell him how wrong he is, but even if he stopped dismissing you long enough to listen he wouldn't believe you. Everybody lies, after all. _

_You reach out your hand to touch him, thinking that perhaps invading his personal space in the way that he hates so fiercely will really get his attention, but he is no longer there. You look around in confusion. You are no longer in his office, but in his apartment. You're standing right in front of him, but he stares through you at some trite comedy on the TV as if you aren't even there. _

_The lights are off, only the subtle glow of the flickering screen behind you illuminates him. It shouldn't; you're standing between him and the TV, but the ever changing light plays across his face and you forget to be concerned about why you feel like you aren't really there._

_He looks so much older. You tell yourself it is a trick of the light, even you look old in such a position, but you can't fool yourself. His hair is grayer; his face more deeply lined. He reaches through your leg for a glass of some amber liquid on the table and you notice a small tremor. You wonder how much time has passed. How old is he now? How many nights has he spent exactly this way? _

_Will nothing in his existence ever change?_

You jerk awake with tears on your cheeks. You close your eyes and let one silent sob escape you, the scream you wish to voice so enormous you choke. You can only remember feeling such complete and perfect sadness one day in your life; it is a day you mark by laying flowers on a cold grave every March. You know it was only a dream, but that image of him is so powerful it's as though it has been indelibly etched into your consciousness, so that even scrunching your eyes closed tightly does not divest you of its presence.

You mourn a little for him at that moment. You mourn for all that he will never see, never hear, never feel while he is living out his days as a zombie. You mourn for the joy he denies himself, and the terrifying prospect of the years stretched out before him, bereft of hope or love, for as far as the mind's eye can see. You mourn him as you mourned your husband; because without the ability to change they are equally dead.

You climb from your bed and venture into the living room, drawing a throw blanket over your slim shoulders as you sink into the sofa with a sigh. You will likely not reclaim sleep tonight.

You try not to think how eerily you resemble that image of him from your dream. You will not succumb to that future. He is wrong. You can change.

* * *

"Wow" he laughs at you when he enters the office the following morning. "You look like crap."

"Look familiar?" you snap at him. You are tired and cranky; no amount of caffeine is sufficient to improve your mood. And despite how you mourned him and his solitary future last night, today you are annoyed, even angered by it. It is self imposed, stupid, lazy and worst of all it is cowardly.

He tilts his head at you and shoots you a curious gaze. You hate that look. That is the look he gives you when he feels you're stepping out of character. It means you have intrigued him in some way and you hate it. You hate it because it thrills you and you no longer want him to thrill you.

"They don't actually make a caffeine IV yet, but I'll bet we could rig something up," he says.

"What makes you think I need caffeine?" you ask senselessly.

"I don't care what the Revlon commercials said, those dark circles under your eyes aren't going anywhere," he says, but he speaks with less than his usual degree of sarcasm. He sounds genuinely interested…almost friendly.

"Didn't get much sleep," you mumble, knowing he won't leave this alone but embarrassed to admit a bad dream drove you from your bed like a little girl. "Nightmares."

"Yeah," he breathes, and you look up quickly. Your eyes meet his for the briefest of milliseconds, but it is long enough to read the agreement in his expression. You wonder if he is plagued by bad dreams. "Don't kill anybody while you're in the clinic then," he continues and you simply nod as he casts a quick glance at his carpet and enters his office.


	2. Truth

_You tried to stay, but you could not stand it  
To see me shut down slow  
As though it was an easy thing to do  
__Shelter by Ray LaMontagne_

**Chapter 2 – Truth**

You exit his apartment with your coat still in your arms. You cannot stand one more minute watching him like that and knowing that he could stop it. You are angry and hurt and scared and damn him for making you feel all these things again.

You manage to stab your arms into your coat before the hot tears begin to spill, but they cloud your vision quickly and you fumble with the buttons. You take a deep breath to try and calm yourself, you have to get back to the hospital and soon, but instead a strangled sort of sob-scream flies from you. You clasp your fingers over your mouth to prevent House's hearing you. You lean your back against the wall of his building's tiny foyer and slide to the floor.

You are so angry that he won't stop this. He is so stubborn and worse, so selfish. You have never been so disgusted by his childish behavior. It is not just his life he is toying with here and that angers you. He is dangling the life of this patient in front of Cuddy and Wilson like a kidnapper, holding his brilliance a hostage, ransoming a diagnosis for his precious pills.

You are hurt that he is hurting. You hurt for many people; sympathy and empathy are so much a part of you that you could no sooner turn them off than you could stop breathing. But you hurt for him like you hurt for your husband when he was diagnosed. You hurt for him like you hurt for your mother before she passed away. Like you hurt for others you have loved when they faced their life's truth.

You are scared that he will not survive this. You know he is stubborn beyond any possible measure. Certainly he is the most obstinate person you have ever met, and you're sure everyone you could ask would agree. But stubborn doesn't save lives, not even his. You believe that he will be so against admitting he is wrong that he may…it wouldn't be the first time he'd laid his life on the line to prove a point. You are afraid that this time the point will prove him.

You screw your eyes shut against the tears, but they run impossibly faster. You despise your weakness, hating the way it leeches energy from your body, making you want to curl up right there in House's foyer and sleep. You struggle to control your sobs, wracking painfully in your chest and straining all the muscles in your back. You try to take the deep, calming breaths you always advise your patients to take when they are in pain and wind up choking violently on inhaled tears.

The choking has the bizarre effect of stopping your tears. Your eyes still closed, you breathe slowly in and out while monitoring your heartbeat slowing from jackrabbit speed to slow thumping. As you sit, a storm of thought crashes in your head, forming an idea you don't want to contemplate. The very idea of the idea frightens you beyond measure. As the emotions you are so desperate to keep in check roil inside you, the thunderclouds hiding this hideous concept blacken from a dusky charcoal to an inky, swirling black. Warning flashes of lightning keep your curiosity at bay, for the moment.

You move, the stiffness that has settled into your legs and the ache in your shoulders the only remaining evidence of your tears save your mottled makeup. You button your coat slowly, methodically. You pull your gloves from your pocket and slide your hands inside, welcoming their warmth. You walk quickly to your car, head down to avoid the stares of any passersby. You slide into the driver's seat and immediately flip down the visor to inspect the damage. It's not as bad as you feared. A few quick swipes with a Kleenex from the glove box and you are presentable again.

You drive to the hospital in a sort of daze, plagued alternately by visions of him sweating and clutching his bloody arm and the older him you saw in your dream until they overlap and form one sad, desperate House, pained and alone. You pull into a spot in the parking garage and it isn't until you are walking up the ice encrusted path to the hospital lobby does the unlikelihood of that image hit you. You blink away new tears as you think it's far more likely he'll never become that old man, having died a lonely death far too young.

You pause before you enter, aware that Cuddy, Wilson or both will be waiting for you in the lobby. You will not lie for him. And perhaps if Cuddy and Wilson know the shape he's in they will change their minds. You will also not give in to their assumptions that you can't handle House in his dark moods, his worst moments.

"How is he?" Cuddy asks with concern that is genuine and deep.

"He's still House," you reply dryly. You want to remind her that no matter how she tries, no matter the ploy and definitely no matter that she is right and he needs help, she cannot change who he is. He is House and he can be no other way.

You don't actually see him when he returns to the hospital. You know he does from the terse message left for the three of you about how he solved the case. It should elate you; even in such a state as he was in, he can still out-diagnose your entire team and Cuddy. But the message reads wrong. It should be smug and self-satisfied and insulting. Instead it is the epitome of brevity, so sparse and direct it is almost clinical. It is final.

You are scared for him again.

You go home and pace your apartment nervously, debating whether you should check up on him or ignore it. You have nearly convinced yourself the very least you can do is call Wilson to make sure he's okay when you catch sight of yourself in the bathroom mirror on your third lap from the bedroom to the kitchen.

You don't like what you see.

You step inside the bathroom, flipping the switch and flooding the room with harsh light as you go. You stand in front of the mirror, leaning your hips against the sink, and stare at yourself closely, critically.

You are a mess.

You look the way you looked when your mother was ill. The way you looked when your husband was sleeping in his hospital bed and you slipped away for a few moments to cry in private. Your face is drawn, pale and gray at once. You look eons older than your true age. Your mouth is turned down at the corners in what you can only classify as a grimace. You catalog these details carefully before leaning closer to the mirror and taking the final inventory.

You look into the reflection of your eyes.

You see pain you have no right to feel. You see the soul of woman many years your senior. You see sadness. You don't see hope.

You see thunderclouds.

The idea you feared earlier has returned, rumbling for your attention. You see the stormy truth in your own eyes and you recognize it. It is the same look you saw in your mother's eyes and your husband's eyes when they realized their life's truth. They could not escape death. But death isn't coming for you, not now, and you can't understand why now … now when all you can think about is House, all you can concern yourself with is House, why now is your life's truth emerging?

Why can't you stop loving House?

You grip the sink hard as the storm clouds pass and the idea crashes into your consciousness with a lightning storm of self-awareness. You are sacrificing yourself for someone you love. Again. You are giving everything you have, every ounce of what you are to another person, a person who you feel needs it more. A damaged person.

You lower your head away from your horrified eyes toward the sink, unable to look yourself in the eye any longer. You gag; the truth is too large for you to swallow.

What if House is right about you?


	3. Lies

_Well I'm not paralyzed  
But, I seem to be struck by you  
I want to make you move  
Because you're standing still  
Paralyzer by Finger Eleven_

**Chapter 3 – Lies**

Your fingers stutter over the keyboard. You stop typing, not for the first time, and lay your hands in your lap. You flex your fingers on your bouncing knees to steady them. If you can't even type out the letter, you will never manage to present it to him.

You can't keep letting him get to you this way. The news is a shock, you tell yourself. You weren't expecting it and that's why you're reacting this way. You just need time to adjust yourself to this new reality.

A reality with no House in it.

He is dying.

He pushes you all away, of course. Even Wilson, the one person you would have sworn he would have gone to with this, knew nothing about it. It is only by random chance that you all found out. You wonder how long he would have gone on without telling you (the team). Until his symptoms manifested in ways that he could no longer hide? Would he have let it progress that far? Or would he, as usual, take the coward's way out and simply disappear? Stop showing up for work altogether…slink away into the great unknown to die alone?

The idea of him stealing away in the night to some anonymous place to spend his last days, weeks or months utterly alone to await death is almost more upsetting than the prospect of your life once he is gone.

You shake your head and begin typing again. You focus on your anger, because it is all that fuels you to get through this without breaking down. You don't care that anger isn't yours to feel. You need the anger, because the alternative is loss and you aren't ready to acknowledge that yet.

Yes, you're angry. You're angry that he lied and kept this from you (all of you). You're angry that even now he is so tyrannical as to think he can actually stop you from caring that he is sick. You're angry that he has every intention of shunning anyone who might want to help him through this.

You don't think about the anger you feel that cancer is taking another man you love.

You don't love him. You loved the idea of him, the idea that underneath his gruff exterior was a man who longed to be loved and feared love above all else. That man isn't real. Underneath his gruff exterior is nothing but a gruff interior and you aren't interested in loving an unlovable man.

You finish typing your letter and tap your fingers impatiently as you wait for it to print out. You snatch it from the machine and fold it with shaky hands.

You stand outside his door fully five minutes and rehearse what you are about to do. You are not going to stand by and let him brush off all your attempts to help him. Foreman, Chase, Wilson and Cuddy are all just as anxious as you to make sure there is nothing else. No other option, no second chance. You don't have to let him dictate your actions. You are your own person, not an appendage of him. You will get what you want for once.

You push open the door and walk into his office, running your hand over your pocket one last time.

* * *

"You faked cancer…to get high?" you croak. You can feel the tears threatening and the bile rising in your throat.

How dare he?! How dare he?! Never mind the audacity of commandeering another patient's file to use as his own. Never mind the person who actually has cancer who was rejected for the trial because he took their place.

How could he let you (them) go on thinking he was dying? How could he lie so completely, so unfeelingly, to the only people in his life that cared about him at all?

How could he kiss you like that and not mean it?

How could you have ever thought you loved him?

You walk out of his apartment with Foreman and Chase in a daze. You are so overwhelmed you can't even decide what to feel first. Your emotions are all so enormous you can't feel them all at once or you will explode. Each of them is clamoring for your attention and you can't hear a thing. You know Chase is saying something to you, but your head is such a jumble of noise that you can't make it out. You just shake your head at him and walk off toward home.

By the time you've reached your apartment, some semblance of order has been restored in your world. House is House. What he has done this time is not any worse or any more shocking than anything else he has done in the past.

You chalk it up to so many years of his infinite selfishness and astounding defiance of any social norm that you are able to so quickly temper your rage, grief and dismay. You congratulate yourself on your progress in preventing him from unnerving you.

You collapse onto your sofa exhausted, wishing you had let Chase drive you home. You fall to sleep almost immediately.

_You awake on the couch and he is there. You know immediately this is a dream. He has never been inside your apartment; you have been wise enough to prevent his complete invasion of your life by barring him access here. He stares at you, silent and unmoving. Without any words spoken, you know that he is trying to tell you something. You shake your head at him to indicate you don't understand. _

_He sighs, although you cannot hear him, and makes known his frustration, annoyed that he will have to explain. It is an all too familiar gesture. Without warning, his right leg combusts into white-hot flames. He mimes taking a pill and the flames subside to little more than a weak splutter. Sparks fly from his leg occasionally and he winces as they do. The flames flicker for only a moment before they erupt again in a violent blaze. Once more, he mimes taking his pill and the flames splutter. You nod at him that you understand. _

_Now you are in a hospital recovery room. It is not PPTH; you understand instinctively this is the hospital in Boston. House is in the patient's bed. He is dressed, and reclining atop the covers. You furrow your brow at him and he inclines his head toward his leg. The flames have gone; his thigh has taken on the appearance of a bed of embers. It looks like the morning remnants of the campfires you and your brother huddled around on fall nights when you would escape your mother's cries of pain as she lay dying. You catch your breath because you understand._

_You are back on the couch with him. He isn't angry; in fact, you think he is the saddest thing you have ever seen. He picks up your remote control and flicks on the TV. As the pale blue light flickers across his rapidly aging features, he takes the small orange vial from his pocket and takes a pill. _

You wake with tears on your cheeks for him again. He is looking for escape. What he has done is wrong in more ways than you can count, but you understand. He doesn't want to live his life this way anymore, trapped by a burden of pain he cannot relieve. You understand.


	4. Goodbye

_Sometimes beginnings aren't so simple.  
Sometimes goodbye's the only way.  
__Shadow of the Day by Linkin Park_

**Chapter 4 – Goodbye**

Your fingers do not stutter this time as you type out your official goodbye. There is no need for nervous twitching, as you doubt he will ever read this missive. You are tempted to lay it all out for him, tell him everything you've ever wanted to say but didn't, take back a few things you did … but you don't. Cuddy would hardly appreciate reading all that in the copy of the letter you intend to leave on her desk. You know House and paperwork and you're taking no chances the administration could go untold of your departure.

You have taken all those thoughts and feelings and put them away. They are sealed up in the back of your mind, in something vaguely resembling a crypt when you think about it enough to visualize it. Everything in that vault was placed there with care. Every whimsical wish, dark desire, pathetic plea and desperate dream you have about the two of you is locked up, the key discarded. You examined each and every one as you placed them there. You intend to leave them undisturbed for a very long time. Forever, if not longer.

You aren't entirely sure what your next step will be. The only thing you are sure of is you are taking it. It may be a mistake. In fact, it almost certainly is. But none of that matters. All that matters is that you take it and that you keep taking each step that follows.

You feel like this is the right decision, in this moment. You have felt a shift coming since Foreman announced his departure. You feel as if this moment, this decision, has been shaping itself within you for even longer than that. You might have let it go unacknowledged indefinitely if not for Foreman and House's actions. You won't say that they made the decision for you; it is yours and yours alone. But they have made it easier.

You understand Foreman's reasons for leaving. You think it is pointless; he will be like House whether he works at PPTH forever or never sees the man again. But you think it is healthy for him to recognize something he doesn't like about himself and to try to change it. He has inspired you.

You understand House's reaction as well. He hates change. You could speculate about his childhood, about his psychology, but you don't. The whys and wherefores don't matter. Change happens. Sometimes you like it and sometimes you don't, but change is inevitable. All change is not bad. You are going to prove it.

You have learned enough to move on. You have learned to be a better doctor, but it is so much more than that. You have learned to be a better thinker. And you have learned more about yourself in three years under his scrutiny that you could in ten years of therapy. It has been painful, heartbreaking at times; you believe you are a stronger person for it.

But you don't like how much your world has become centered on this one man. Everything about the last three years has been House. Your work, your free time or lack thereof, your self worth, your beliefs…all have been profoundly affected by him. You can't change that, nor would you want to. But you can't let it continue. You are ready for the next change, and if you stay with him it will never happen.

You finish typing and stare at the blinking cursor below your name. You read the letter from start to finish, and wish there was some way that you could express all these thoughts to him in a way that he could understand and accept. You know that will probably never happen. Anything even resembling sentiment is valueless to him.

You fold up the letter and close down your laptop. You glance around your quiet apartment, wondering how much longer you will call this place home. You don't know, but you are not as scared as you thought you would be. You are taking a huge step, but you hope you won't have to take it alone.

You gather up your purse, sliding your resignation letter into the front pocket, and grab your keys and jacket. You have a stop to make before you go back to the hospital.

* * *

You stare at a ceiling you have come to know almost as well as your own. You listen to the steady breathing of the man beside you. You do care about him. And you have no doubt that he cares deeply about you, perhaps even loves you. For now, that is enough.

_You lean forward and snap off the TV in House's office. Wilson is standing beside you and you remember talking about cheating with him. You don't recall House being there, but you are sure you can feel his presence, even in this memory._

"_You didn't do it, did you? You didn't sleep with him," Wilson asks, his voice sad and surprised. _

"I couldn't have lived with myself," you tell him, and even as you speak the words you think this is wrong. This isn't about House. Not everything is about House. Isn't that why you left, because you want a life apart from House?  


"_You'd be surprised what you can live with," Wilson says, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He nods to a shadowy figure lurking in the corner of the office as he exits. _

_You want to tell him he's wrong. You know what you can live with; you know what is right and what isn't. You try to stand to follow him, protest that you wouldn't live with less than the truth, but you can't move. You are frozen, paralyzed. _

_The shadowy figure moves from the dark recesses of the room toward you. You push harder against the chair, but it is as if you have been glued there. You strain and twist, but to no avail. You can't escape. You are trapped._

_The figure stands in front of you, tall and imposing. You look up at the visage that looms above you, but the harsh fluorescent lights above blind you and you cannot see his face. _

"_House, stop it," you say shakily. The figure kneels and you stare in open mouthed shock._

_It's not House. It's your husband._

"_Still not thinking of me first," he says sadly. You feel a tear slide down your face, and you try to speak but now your voice is paralyzed as well and all you can manage is a pitiful shake of your head. "I know your heart wasn't wholly mine," he says. _

_You close your eyes in shame. You can't face him, not even in your dreams. You shake your head again, willing him to go._

"_And I know it too." Your eyes fly open as that familiarly accented voice echoes through the room. Chase's blue eyes meet yours earnestly and you crumple. _

You wake suddenly and are disoriented. It takes you a moment to recognize your surroundings. You try to shake off the dream, but a familiar sense of guilt creeps into your mind. You are being ridiculous; there is no reason to feel guilty for this choice. You are free to move on, you always have been.

You have made no promises to Chase that you cannot keep. All you can promise him is the chance he asked for. The chance that House wouldn't give you. Maybe House can't move on, but you can. You will. You have.


	5. Alone

_It's not having what you want  
__It's wanting what you've got  
__Soak Up the Sun by Sheryl Crow_

**Chapter 5 - Alone **

You settle into a comfortable routine with work and your new home life. You don't examine it or analyze it. Your work is satisfying, if somewhat mundane. You miss the challenge of figuring out the impossible, but you are doing good for your patients. Your relationship is satisfying too, if somewhat sedate. You wish there was more passion, more verve, but you are safe and comfortable.

It is simple.

It is easy.

It is boring.

You don't seek him out when you return to the hospital. You know it is only a matter of time before you cross paths. The hospital is only so big and he has a way of filling it with his presence that you won't try to deny. You are surprised it takes as long as it does for him to find you out. You tell yourself it's not disappointment you feel that he doesn't come to you immediately.

You hear stories about his games. You smirk and roll your eyes. It is the reaction most people expect from you. You try not to get involved. You don't want to be in the middle of that. Not because you disapprove, as so many people think. You don't want to let him in that much.

You find yourself lighting up when you feel him standing there, watching you. You hate yourself a little for it, but you let yourself feel it nonetheless. You mock him and tease him in a way that you never could before. You tell yourself that you are different now. You are no longer the pathetic little girl longing for his approval. You enjoy his visits. You feel like you can be witty and fun, without the pressures of the job and with no expectations about what might happen next. You wonder if this is how he and Wilson interact, and you congratulate yourself on being so mature and self-possessed.

You see him with one of the new fellows. She is very young, very pretty and he is very interested in her. You don't know in what capacity but you don't care. You hate her. Immediately, instinctively, irrationally. You hate her with a passion that you can't explain.

You go home that night and throw yourself at Chase. You try to abandon all thought, all feeling, anything but the moment. You are looking for some kind of escape, the kind of escape you felt when you were high and he came to you. You can't explain yourself when he asks what's gotten into you. You wake in the morning alone, he has already left for work, and you hate yourself even more than you hate her.

You go back to not thinking about it or acknowledging it until it is shoved in your face by a camera crew. You are working the second half of a very long double shift. You are tired and distracted. You barely even hear the words come out of your mouth. It is only after you've said them that they register.

You panic. You babble incoherently for nearly an hour trying to rationalize what you said. You practice and rehearse a ridiculous and painful speech over and over until you want to cry. Chase listens as politely as he can, but in the end he leaves you to your conscience.

You ignore it, and life goes on. You settle back into your comfortable routine and think that eventually you will forget. You pretend not to notice the quiet. You read and ignore the soccer game on the TV. You cook and wash dishes and nod at stories about surgery and make love and balance your checkbook.

You live a life you barely notice.

You don't know how long you would have gone on not thinking about anything, not noticing anything, not really living. You don't get the opportunity to find out. You aren't sure if you are grateful or spiteful.

You are in the elevator, on your way to the surgical suites to tell Chase you are pulling yet another double shift and not to expect you home. Wilson and Cuddy are getting on the elevator as you are exiting and you overhear a snippet of their conversation. Wilson tells Cuddy he thinks House has a thing for that psychiatrist. Cuddy remarks thank goodness she's at the South Pole, the last thing she needs is a love sick House moping around the hospital again.

You keep walking until you are around the corner. Sure no one will see you, you lean against the cool tiled wall and close your eyes. You feel hot jealousy twist your stomach and you realize that you haven't moved on at all.

You are exactly the same place you were a year ago, two years ago, three. You love a man who does not, cannot?, love you back. You have moved not one iota of space in all this time.

You are stuck.

You are trapped.

You are paralyzed.

And now you have taken a prisoner. You have bound yourself to Chase and locked him in your cell. While you are bound to House, neither of you can move on. You have to let Chase go.

You walk back to the elevator. You can't see him now; you aren't ready. You need time to think this over. You need to prepare. You need to convince yourself you aren't the coward you're afraid you are.

You go back to the ER and have Chase paged to meet you in the lobby. You know you will be able to keep up your pretense best if there are other people around to see you. Chase meets you by the reception desk. You talk for a brief moment; there is nothing special about your conversation. You tell him only that you have something to talk to him about. You lay your hand on his arm and smile at him. He smiles back, unable or unwilling to see the sadness in your eyes.

He leans in to place a chaste kiss on your cheek, and over his shoulder you see House across the lobby. He is standing completely still, head hung low to his chest. You feel his sadness from across the room and wonder if he can feel yours.

Chase rubs a hand down your arm and walks off toward the elevators.

House, sparing not so much as a glance in your direction, limps off heavily down the hall in the opposite direction.

You are torn between them, not even able to decide who to watch as they leave you.

You can't remember the last time you felt so alone.


End file.
